“Wait! Your wife has severe stomach pains after drinking bourbon?” Gabe had stopped crying, but had turned whey-faced and his lips were rubbery. “He said it was for the Johnsons.”
In a matter of seconds, Bill had the cell door unlocked, had grabbed Driscoll by the throat, and had backed him against the wall. “Who said? Bernie?”
Driscoll gave a wobbly nod.
“Said what was for the Johnsons?” Bill shook him, thumping him hard against the wall. “What?”
“Arsenic. In the bourbon.”
With the regard one would give a rag doll, Bill dragged the doctor from the cell and pushed him down the hallway with the unstoppable propulsion of a cowcatcher.
* * *
Scotty had come along. He was with Bill as he burst through the front door of his house, shouting his wife’s name. By the time Thatcher had towed Driscoll from the car, up the walk and into the house, Bill was on the landing, barging past a middle-aged woman who was wringing her hands with anxiety and saying repeatedly, “I don’t know what to do for her.”
Scotty hung back to explain the circumstances. “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Cantor. We’ve brought Dr. Driscoll.”
Thatcher, with a grip on the back of Driscoll’s collar, pushed him up the stairs and into the bedroom. Bill was seated on the side of the bed, bending over his wife, who was writhing in apparent agony.
She reached out and clutched Bill’s hand. “I think I’m dying.”
“You’re not going to die.” He raised her hand and kissed the back of it, hard. “You are not going to die. I’m going to fix it.”
He left the bed, walked over to Driscoll, drew his pistol, and pressed the barrel of it against the doctor’s forehead. “If she doesn’t survive this, I am killing you first, then Bernie Croft.”
“Gastric lavage,” Driscoll said.
“What?”
“Pump her stomach. I need to pump her stomach with salt water. I’ll need my equipment.”
“Describe it.”
Thatcher was amazed by how suddenly Driscoll slipped into professional mode. In seemingly perfect control, he gave Scotty a description of the tubing device he required and told him in which cabinet it was stored in his office. “But the house is locked.”
“Kick the damn door in. Shoot out the lock,” Bill said to his deputy.
Scotty rushed out and thumped down the stairs.
Daisy groaned pitiably and extended her hand toward Bill, who holstered his pistol, but shouted to Driscoll, “Do something now!”
The doctor shrugged off his coat. “We need to induce vomiting.”
“She’s been vomiting for days.”
“But she hadn’t ingested half a bottle all at once. This is acute. We need to induce vomiting.” He rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where can I wash?”
“Across the hall.”
Thatcher followed him as far as the door to the bathroom and watched as he lathered up and rinsed his hands. As he was drying them, his gaze met Thatcher’s in the mirror above the sink. “Are you expecting an apology for my false accusations, Mr. Hutton?”
“I don’t give a fuck in hell about an apology from you. But you owe your wife one. How’d you do it?”
“I hit her on the back of the head with an iron skillet. The skillet in which she baked the shortbread you enjoyed so much.” He folded the hand towel and hung it just so on the metal bar, then went past Thatcher and returned to the bedroom.
Daisy was lying on her side, knees pulled to her chest, moaning and gripping her midsection. Bill was leaning over her, stroking her face and talking softly.
Thatcher noticed a half-full bottle of name-brand bourbon sitting on the bureau. He went over and got it, knowing it would be valuable evidence against both Driscoll and Croft.